Maddalena Covilhā had come down from a mountain town of the same name, Covilhā, to Oporto to make her fortune, struck up with a wine merchant who’d brought her to Gibraltar in 1804 and then died of Gibraltar Fever the same year, leaving her penniless and alone.

Beyond her slim and supple body, beyond her bold good looks, Maddalena Covilhā was also a very intelligent young lady of great sense, who had taught herself English, then Spanish, and was literate and fluent in all three languages.

Such was the fate of all un-attached young women, and young widows, on Gibraltar, unless they’d inherited a family business or a bequest, and could support themselves; they had to be dependent upon a man who would take them “under his protection” and pay for their up-keep. Maddalena might have expected her new keeper to be the same sort of un-feeling brute as Hughes, but both she and Lewrie found their arrangement to be a mutually pleasing, amusing, and affectionate relationship, even knowing that it might not be permanent. He’d been a widower since 1802, and a sailor who could be ordered away any time.

She was wearing a new gown in a russet colour, trimmed with just a bit of white lace, which he thought complemented her dark brown hair and eyes and slightly olive complexion quite nicely. He noted that a white lace shawl and a perky little straw bonnet trimmed with russet ribbons awaited their going-out atop a tall chest, out of reach of her cat, Precious. Maddalena had gone to the set of double doors that led to the harbour-front balcony of her set of rooms, to stare out at the sunset and sip her wine. He went to join her.

“Ye know, minha doce, that we’ll kick the French out of Portugal, and you’ll see Lisbon,” he cooed, and she leaned back into him. “Hell, I vow you’ll end up a fine lady in Lisbon, in a free country.”

“Sim … yes, I would like that, someday,” she whispered back, still looking outwards. She then turned to look at him and put her arms round his waist, with a dreamy look on her face. “You will do that for me, I know. You’re a good man, Alan. Now, will you feed me? And where do we dine?”

“Pescadore’s!” they said in chorus, and laughed aloud, for that seafood establishment, run by a retired British Sergeant-Major and his Spanish wife and children, was one of the few really good places on the Rock to dine.

*   *   *

As merry as Lewrie tried to be with her, though, and as merry as she pretended to be, Maddalena’s mood, her sadness and worry, could not rise to the occasion, and she merely picked at her succulent seafood supper.

Worst of all, for Lewrie at least, was later when they returned to her lodgings. When they sat on the settee and began to kiss and fondle, she laid a reticent hand on his chest.

“Alan, I am … how you say, ‘under the moon’?” she whispered.

“Under … ah!” he realised, then deflated. “Damn. Well…?”

It was Maddalena’s time of the month, and those cundums in his coat pocket would go un-used. He’d never much cared for tupping any maiden when she was having her bloody flux, and had slept in a separate bed-chamber when his late wife had hers. It was just too messy!

“I am sorry, dear man,” she said, whispering into his neck.

“Don’t you be sorry for Mother Nature,” he insisted, trying to laugh it off. “There’ll be plenty of other nights. Eh, I don’t think I’ll sleep ashore, if that’s alright with you. I adore sleeping with you, mind, but I’d only get tempted, and…”

“Frustrated,” Maddalena finished for him. “Sim, I would be frustrated, também,” she added with a nervous little laugh.

It was awkward for both of them, but, after a final glass of wine and a few hugs and kisses in parting, Lewrie ended up strolling back to the quays and the landing stage in the dark and mostly empty streets, hand on the hilt of his everyday hanger, and glad to see the Provost patrols who served as the Town Major’s police force.

“A boat, sir?” a sleepy waterman at the landing stage asked, rousing himself from a nap.

“Aye,” Lewrie told him. “Out to the Sapphire.”

My idle ship, he thought.

The large taffrail lanthorns at the stern were lit, as well as smaller lanthorns on the quarterdeck and forecastle. The wee street-lights along the quay and the main street barely reached her sides, making the 50-gunned two-decker merely the hint of a wooden ghost out on the calm waters of the bay, and her furled and harbour-gasketted sails seemed more like old parchment.

It’s only a day’s jaunt, out and back to Ceuta, but I’ll take it, he told himself; I’ll take any opportunity t’get under way again.

CHAPTER THREE

Lewrie was only half-way through his breakfast, a particularly fine omelet with mushrooms, onions, tomato, and cheese, with toasted slabs of fresh shore bread, when one of Sapphire’s Midshipmen standing Harbour Watch hailed an approaching boat. Lewrie perked up, chewing a bite of toast thickly slathered with red currant preserves, cocking an ear to what was occurring just beyond his cabin doors. He faintly made out a call from the boat; “Letter for your Captain!” and sat up even straighter, about ready to cross the fingers of his right hand for good luck. Yes! There was the thump of a boat coming alongside, and the scramble of a messenger up the boarding battens!

He picked up a bit of spicy Spanish sausage with his fingers and popped it into his mouth as footsteps could be heard clumping on the quarterdeck, leading to …

“Message for the Captain, SAH!” the Marine Private who stood sentry at the cabin doors cried, stamping boots and musket butt.

“Enter,” Lewrie called out, trying to sound blasé.

And don’t let it be from the bloody dockyards! he thought.

Midshipman Ward, one of the youngest, came round to the dining-coach with his hat under his arm, and a sealed letter in his hand.

“Yes, Mister Ward?” Lewrie said, between sips of coffee.

“A message from Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple, sir,” Ward stiffly said, laying the missive on the dining table.

“Thank you, Mister Ward, you may go,” Lewrie told him, paying it no attention for the moment. As soon as Ward was round the corner into the day-cabin, though, Lewrie snatched it up and tore it open. “Aha! Pettus? Pass word to muster my boat crew, if ye please, I’m called ashore.” He reached for the napkin tucked under his chin and almost shot to his feet, but paused. It really was such a toothsome breakfast, too good to be abandoned entirely. He took a few quick bites more of everything, a last slurp of sugared and creamed coffee, then shrugged into his coat, snatched up his sword belt and hat, and left the cabins, still chewing.

Chalky, who had been feeding from his own bowl atop the table at the far end, took the opportunity to raid what was left, paying close attention to the sausages.

*   *   *

The Convent, headquarters and lodgings for Dalrymple and his staff, did not resemble the dither that Thomas Mountjoy had depicted to Lewrie the night before; it seemed almost somnolent and hushed at its normal routine. Lewrie was shown into Dalrymple’s offices by an aide-de-camp. There was no breathless council-of-war going on; there was only Sir Hew, standing before a large map pinned to a board on a stand, musing over Ceuta and its environs.

“Ah, Lewrie,” Sir Hew said, almost absent-mindedly. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I need you to do me a small service, if you can.”

“Happy to, sir,” Lewrie replied, feeling a bit let-down that his imaginings did not match the reality. “What do ye have in mind?”

“That bloody place, sir!” Sir Hew spat, jabbing his arm out to tap his map. “London has finally relented to my many suggestions for dealing with Ceuta.” Sir Hew turned to face Lewrie. “Major-General Sir Brent Spencer and an army of seven thousand men are being sent to me to do just that. Lord Castlereagh has sent me formal approval to make the attempt.”